


Black

by thewaitwasworthitlove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, F/M, Jealous Draco Malfoy, Little Black Dress, Revenge, in lovely accents, murmured french
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/pseuds/thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She took a deep breath and remembered why she was here - to make Draco Malfoy sweat. She pressed her feelings down. Now was not a time to get all dewy and nervous and tremulous. That time was past. Now it was time to get even."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Welcome new friend. :)
> 
> Now on to this story. Three pieces of advice:
> 
> 1) Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black" on in the background as you read. The inspiration for this One-Shot should come right on through.
> 
> 2) Je serai poète et toi poésie is a super important phrase in this fic. From the French, it means, "I'll be a poet, and you'll be poetry."
> 
> 3) Last, please don't hate me. They don't play nice in this fic, at all. It was fun to write, but the end left me in a tizzy.

Draco stood in front of the mirror, rolling his eyes before looking into it and making eye contact with his mother. She stood behind him, her flaxen hair pulled up into an elaborate up-do.

"Mother, I'm not doing it. Please, leave it." He was tired of this argument. They'd had it four times today.

"Draco, it's your announcement party. Surely you want to fit the theme your fiancée has selected," He mouthed her reply as she said it. It was the same thing she'd been saying to him all day.

"Mother, I don't do parties, and I most certainly do not do pastels," he sneered.

"Fine, fine, Draco. You really are impossible, you know," she said, gathering her wrap and touching up her lipstick.

He shot her a winning smile, "Naturally."

With a light sigh, she wheeled around and was gone in a haze of lavender robes. He could kill Astoria. She'd asked him about all of this stuff weeks ago, and he'd been so distracted he'd just brushed it off, kissing the top of her forehead.

"Whatever you think is best," he'd said.

Merlin, he could slit his own wrists. Now, here he was on the evening of his engagement about to be surrounded by airheads roaming the bewitched ballroom all dressed in pale pastels. Spring in Paris. That was the bloody theme of this atrocity. How utterly clichéd. Then again, Gods help her, Astoria was rather a walking cliché. Just like all of the highborn witches he'd ever met. All polished. All perfect. All dreadfully, absolutely dull.

Draco had went along with the ride until his mother had come home last week with a surprise: His robes. Draco groaned even now. Who the hell thought pale blue was a good choice for a wizard's dress robes? They were a disaster. Draco had been recalcitrant. He wore black. He'd always worn black. Astoria had sulked all week. His black robes hardly went with her own confection of pale pink, but he'd held his ground. He'd be wearing black tonight, just like he always did. No amount of crying, anger, or sulking was going to change his opinion on the matter. He sighed and straightened his dark tie. He figured it was time for him to make an appearance. It was his party after all, well, half his party, anyway.

* * *

 

Hermione Granger had had enough. Who was she kidding? When it came to her and Malfoy, enough was never enough. _Enough_ hardly scratched the surface. She knew first hand.

She walked in the open gates of Malfoy Manor and admired it, all lit up, a shining, marble pearl against inky black velvet. She strolled, bold as brass, into the front parlor. Here she was, one-third of the Golden Trio smiling sweetly two rooms away from where crazy Bellatrix Lestrange had carved epithets into her tender flesh. The first time Narcissa had insisted on inviting Harry Potter and his friends to her home, people had called the older woman crazy, even insolent to suggest Harry Potter and company would have anything to do with the Malfoys. But Harry, never forgetting a kindness, had insisted they go. Ever since, at least one of them went to every one of her functions to show face, to support Narcissa because she had saved the wizarding world with a word. People never got over Hermione's presence here. A Mudblood in Malfoy Manor. She smirked to herself.

_Oh, if only they knew._

Hermione had jumped at the chance to come to this particular event, practically leaping on the invitation they'd received, snatching it out of Harry's hands. She'd tried to look innocent, but he'd narrowed his bottle-green eyes suspiciously. Hermione didn't like keeping secrets, but when you'd been shagging your beautiful childhood bully, it's best to keep things under wraps.

Hermione's eyes closed as she gave herself over to the memories for just a moment. Sheets, lace, and a luminous pair of silver eyes all flitted before her. She focused on that last one, him looking up at her from the junction of her thighs, eyes as bright as little moons, as his tongue worked her over and over, driving her to the brink of insanity before she broke down and sobbed for him to fuck her.

"Miss," she felt a small hand gently touch her arm, she opened her eyes and looked down to find one of the Malfoy house elves staring up at her with saucer-like hazel eyes. "Miss, would you like us to announce you? Why is Miss crying?"

Hermione reached up to touch her face. A single tear had escaped and rolled down her cheek. Her mother had always told her you couldn't cover up the bad with the good. Guess she was right, even when the good was reallyfuckinggood.

"Just allergies, I guess. Yes, yes please do announce me." She took a deep breath and remembered why she was here – to make Draco Malfoy sweat. She pressed her feelings down. Now was not a time to get all dewy and nervous and tremulous. That time was past. Way past, really.

Now, it was time to get even.

* * *

 

If there was a hell, other than being deadly warm, Draco was almost certain that it would have chatter, small talk. Once he died, he was almost positive he'd find himself trapped in almost this exact same situation, people buzzing and tittering all around him. If there was one thing Draco Malfoy loathed more than fussy, petty people, it was the utter drivel which fell from their mouths. It dripped out like honey, cloyingly sweet, sticky, and nearly impossible to clean off. The nape of his neck crawled every time some horrid man or woman approached him spewing forth glittering platitudes or worse yet, their congratulations. Congratulations for what, he wondered:

_"Congratulations, mate. Good job doing what every fucking person you've ever met expected you to do: get married, carry on the family line, the family business, the family "honor," and rot away in this little corner of Wiltshire with your insipid, beautiful wife. Look at it this way, at least you're already in a marble goddamn mausoleum. They'll be hardly any fuss at all when you finally give up the ghost."_

Draco was staring out one of the large windows into the night, enjoying a respite from the crowd, when he heard the clarion call of the crier.

"Miss Hermione Granger," the old windbag shrieked. Draco thanked the many stars that his back was turned. No one had seen him choke on his champagne, spilling half the flute down his front. Silently cursing, he cast a non-verbal scorgify before taking a deep breath and turning to face her.

His mouth fell open.

She looked good. Really good.

She looked…she looked positively indecent.

She locked eyes with him and didn't break it as she walked, no, strutted her way directly to him. At some point, he remembered to close his jaw as he watched her in slow motion. She wore a black cocktail dress, sleeveless. It had a high décolletage, the neckline coming up to nearly the base of her neck, only the faintest trace of the center of her collarbones exposed, but it didn't matter. It was tight, impossibly tight. Outlining her lithe figure, nipping in at her tiny waist. She wore black stiletto pumps and her hair was twisted up in an elegant and simple knot. Draco watched awed at the woman in black slicing her way through the crowd, a raven against all the doves, the fly in the ointment. The women looked askance, the men managed to look appalled when catching the eyes of their wives and girlfriends before stealing appreciative glances of her as she walked by when they thought no one was looking.

He tried his best to keep his mind clear, his face still, his jaw clenched. He ground his teeth as the memories flooded his mind anyway. He was leaned up against the headboard of his big four poster bed watching the small brunette impale herself on him, using him for her own pleasure. She'd throw her head back lost in the sensation. Draco marveled at her taunt body. Back arched, breasts thrust out as she made those delectable, throaty moans he had always been enamored with. Nothing felt better than this. Nothing felt better than her. Nothing felt better than them.

Draco shook off the memories as she closed the last few feet between them. She flashed him a toothy smile, her bright red lips curving up wickedly. In that moment, Draco wondered what his cock would look like with red lipstick marks around the base. He began to smirk at the thought, but jerked his lips back down into their usual thin line.

"Draco," she purred.

He nodded curtly, "Granger."

She tisked, "Oh, Draco, come now, last names again? Hardly appropriate, don't you think?"

"It's absolutely appropriate," he bit. He could see Astoria over Hermione's shoulder making her way over to the pair, walking in the wake of Draco's former lover.

She laughed softly, "Well then, that's a first for us, isn't it? _Appropriate?_ " She shot him a searing gaze as her mouth stretched and curled around the word. Astoria walked past her and to Draco's side. Her eyes softened as she looked at Astoria. "Ah, Astoria," she said lightly, "You look smashing. That color is just absolutely perfect for you. Don't you think, Malfoy?" She asked, tilting her head slightly to the side. Draco held his tongue unsure whether he wanted to strike her until her pale skin purpled or kiss her until the heavens fell down at their feet.

"Hermione Granger," the young blond witch said sweetly, "We're so happy you could join us tonight." She placed her hand lightly on Draco's arm. From the outside perspective, it looked endearing, like three old friends catching up. Draco knew better. Astoria was marking her property; Hermione was laughing at her for trying to hold on to something she'd already had. Draco looked straight ahead, preferring to seethe in silence.

"The pleasure's all mine. I hope you'll both excuse me," Granger managed to look around faking nervousness, "I didn't realize there was a theme, or I would have dressed differently. I'd just come home from a dinner meeting, and Harry dropped a line and told me he couldn't make it tonight."

"Of course, Hermione. Don't worry about it. Your presence here is enough. Oh, dear," she fretted, "Those silly house elves, they're going to be the death of me. If you'll both excuse me."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Hermione crooned, looking at the passing witch before turning her attention back to Draco.

* * *

 

Hermione watched as Draco's eyes, until now looking forward demonstrating his unwillingness to make any effort in the conversation, snapped to follow Astoria as she walked away.

"Dinner meeting?" He asked acerbically; he looked at her. Hermione could have sworn in that moment his eyes flashed Slytherin green with envy.

"Not your territory anymore, Malfoy. Leave it."

"Well, I hope the poor bloke didn't have to see the spectacle of yourself that I'm currently bearing witness to," he snarled.

Hermione should have been hurt by his words, but she knew Draco better than everyone else in the room, including his sniveling blonde intended.

She leaned in closely, looking for all the world like she was merely saying her goodbyes. She looked at his lips briefly before her cinnamon brown eyes snapped wickedly onto his thunderous grey ones.

"He wasn't that lucky. Besides, Draco, you and I both know, you've seen nothing yet."

She turned and, so, began her game. Slowly, charmingly she wound her way throughout the room. Laughing at men's attempts to make her laugh rather than their jokes, touching their arms softly, looking at them with a wide-eyed, practiced innocence. Her eyes were as dry as the champagne, but with every man that smiled at her she couldn't help but feel hollow. She'd wandered the entire room, only to find bits and pieces of the man who was covertly watching her performance with hooded, cloudy eyes.

One man was Parisian. His lilting accent forcing Hermione to remember Draco murmuring French in her ear as they made love. Draco had spent a lot of time in France as a boy; his accent was impeccable. Those times were slow, passionate. There was no frenzied rush, just protracted agony as they plunged into one another over and over, both a little swept up, both a little desperate for one or the other of them to just say the words that would have changed everything. Neither did. Stubbornness, she guessed, or cowardice had stayed both of their tongues.

One man was a writer. He'd compared her eyes to melted caramel, to rich, loamy earth. All Hermione could hear was Draco reading Donne, eating an apple as he sprawled out on the bed, dressed only in a white top sheet. As she fell asleep he had brushed his lips against her temple and muttered into her ear. Hermione had feigned sleep, but she had sealed the words away into her mind forever: _"Je serai poète, et toi poésie."_

One man had ran his hand through his hair, trying, she supposed to look carefree. Hermione frowned remembering Draco sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked up and ran his hand through his hair.

_"Hermione, we knew this day was coming. Don't make it harder than it already is."_

_Draco looked over at her, his eyes silently begging for her to say something, anything. She'd been silent for the last ten minutes. She got up from the chair she had been sitting in and casually walked to the fireplace._

_"I suppose you're right, Draco." He let out a grateful sigh, but with a flash she grabbed the delicate china vase and flung it at the wall. Her hands were trembling, but she balled them and looked down, collecting herself, before looking up at him. His face showed his confusion and shock. Hermione Granger didn't lash out, Hermione Granger didn't do this. She swept away the feelings of anguish and managed to draw herself up into calm, cold fury._

_"Leave," she leveled icily. He began to say something but she cut him off. "You're going to leave anyway, so why drag it out? Go. Go to her. Go to your easy, gentle darling, Draco. Go, and try to forget me. You won't, but, hey, here's to trying."_

_He'd managed to shake off what looked to be the worst of the shock and nodded._

_Hermione turned her back, resting her hands on either side of her body on the mantel piece. He gathered his things and she heard the door click open._

_"Goodbye, Hermione," he said._

With that he was gone and she crumbled. When she'd been able to pick herself off of the hotel floor two days later, she'd apparated back to London. Her skin pale, her eyes bloodshot. A month later, the invitation had arrived at Harry's front door, and she swore to herself that there would be no more tears. Draco Malfoy wanted to waltz out of her life? Fine, but it would be on her terms. He would watch her dance before they were done.

* * *

 

Draco had watched her leave him there at the window, his eyes lingering on her backside. He groaned when he saw her hose. From the front they were nothing special. Just regular nude hosiery, but in the back each leg had a single black seam from ankle to thigh. His breathing hitched as he fought the desire to run his tongue up the little lines nipping and kissing his way up her body.

He watched her stoically as she began to work the room. She had been right, of course. He hadn't seen anything yet. She made her way around the room flirting with any and every man between puberty and his death bed. He had to admire her charisma, in between the bouts of anger and lust he was feeling. The poor sods fought for every favor, every dance, their own dates woefully discarded. If he hadn't have cared so much, he would have laughed at how jealousy warped their features, that is, until he realized his own face must share some of that desperate envy. Draco decided his best bet was keep drinking the champagne, obliterating his senses. Astoria had busied herself with the party and their guests, knowing that Draco didn't like dances. Draco Malfoy had to be the only person in human history who could feel so alone at his own damn party.

He nursed his drink as he watched Hermione laugh. Generally, he'd compared her to a wine, a nice rich port, complex and deep. But tonight, she was champagne, bubbly and effortless. Just as easy, just as tart. He winced as he shifted, his erection was painfully stiff, begging for attention. Her attention. Damn her. She was driving him mad. It was like no time had passed at all. There she was, still dazzling, putting all the other witches in the room to shame. Wolfishly, he imagined what she's wearing under that filmy dress. One good tug and he could have her half way past half-naked. Delicious, he thought. At that moment, she caught his gaze and smirked, arching one dark brow.

* * *

 

She caught his eyes before being distracted by the commotion in the room. At the end of the ballroom there was a small stage which people began gathering themselves around. She shoot another glance over her shoulder in time to see the little house elf from earlier approach Draco and lead him towards the platform. She hung back, letting most of the crowd gather in front of her closer to Malfoy's dais. He walked up confidently before turning and facing the crowd. Hermione could see Narcissa just off to the side, looking up at her son proudly.

Hermione looked at the room, everyone smiling brightly at the young wizard. Hermione took a long draft from her drink, it was her time to watch the "spectacle" now. Though, she sincerely doubted it would be as captivating as her performance had been tonight.

* * *

 

Draco cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Thank you all for coming here tonight. It means a great deal to have you all here under our roof," Draco began dryly. He scanned the crowd, making eye contact with several people before continuing, careful not to look up, slightly to the left, where Hermione stood. There was a commotion in the crowd, Hermione turned her back and began walking towards the back exit of the ballroom. Her heels clicking lightly against the marble floors in the silence. Several people looked back, before returning their attention to Draco. He adverted his gaze, desperately trying not to look, the clicking of her shoes filling his mind. "I have to admit, I'm a private person, it's difficult for me to share my feelings, but I can tell you all that I'm so pleased to share this night with you. Tonight, I'd like to announce my engagement, and I want all of you to be the first to know."

"Astoria Greengrass has agreed to be my wife." Hermione had made her way nearly to the back of the hall, he swallowed before continuing, Astoria now blushing and staring up at him in rapture. Draco glanced at her momentarily flashing her a weak smile before looking forward to the back of the hall and finishing his speech.

_"Je serai poète, et toi poésie."_

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Astoria had come on the stage, and robotically he felt his arms snap around hers in a loose embrace. All eyes were on the happy couple, and his were locked on the brunette's back as she paused momentarily, presumably at his last words.

He'd said them only once before. Only once. She had been pretending to sleep. It was easier for her to pretend she'd never heard them. Like they didn't matter. Like _they_ didn't matter. Draco swore that she almost turned around. If she had, he would have brought the world to her feet, thrown off this blonde and pink confection, and begged and graveled until she kissed him soft and deep. He could go after her, he supposed. But something held them both back. Stubbornness, he figured or cowardice. He watched her take a deep breath, begin to move, and leave him like he'd left her.

He realized now, they were the only ones who had dressed appropriately for the occasion.

Black for mourning. After all, something had died. Something important. Something so important, Draco shirked from the mere thought of its power. And in a crowd of happy, dimwitted guests all celebrating this new development, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were the only ones mourning its passing, both now profoundly moved by the loss of something neither had ever been brave enough to name.

He looked down at his future bride, staring blindly at her as she lavishly smiled in adoration.

_Who the hell wears pink to a funeral, anyway?_


End file.
